


Gears and Gaslamps

by PencilInk



Category: Original Work, Steampunk - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, There's violence but it's probably not going to be /too/ graphic, and there's going to be talk about some less scrupulous subject matter, these tags are subject to change; jsyk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 22:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17589218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PencilInk/pseuds/PencilInk
Summary: Evelyn has lived in the clockwork city of Vorli her entire life, and wants more than anything to see the marvels of the world that she's only read about in her books. Lannister is a street-savvy wanderer that gives her the perfect chance to do it. But Evelyn has a secret, and her father is determined to get her back.





	Gears and Gaslamps

Singing birds. A sound she knew well. A sound she enjoyed. The feathery creatures made a habit of gathering on the outside sill of her window, and she'd lost count of how many hours she'd spent sitting by it, peering into her books and trying to identify the animals outside based on the sketches within the pages, or idly watching them flit about above the cityscape below her window. She could see almost everything in the noble district from there, the people walking about, attending to their business; children running after one another and playing their games, the great lifts in the distance that all led to Vorli's lower levels, powered by steam and gears. Sometimes she could even see the workmen performing maintenance on the lifts, but her favorite thing to watch was always the festival. The beautiful lights, the parades, the fireworks. And it was tonight, and she knew she was finally ready to go. She'd given her all in every schooling course Joyce had given her. She'd been nothing but obedient and polite, and even now, as the various avian songs cause her to stir in her bed, she can't find it in herself to be displeased about her slumber being disturbed. As she slowly sits upright, brushing some of her hair from her face and sucking in a refreshingly deep breath, she can't help but curl her lips in a soft smile as she listens to the notes.

"Canaries." She whispers to herself. They were her favorite. Ever since she was a little girl, she'd thought their songs were the prettiest, and her opinion certainly isn't going to be changed by the sound she hears now. Although she's tempted to simply sit in bed and listen awhile, she surrenders to the necessity of getting up. After all, she wouldn't be going anywhere tonight if she never got out of bed. Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed and shuddering softly as her bare feet make contact with the cold floor, she takes a moment to stretch her arms above her head before she stands, groaning as her tired joints pop.

Walking over to her changing area, thankful to finally feel her feet hit the thick area rug she'd placed there that would prevent them from having to suffer the cold floor any longer, she pauses when she catches sight of herself in her vanity mirror. She sighs, deciding that picking out an outfit can wait as she grabs her brush, seating herself on the stool sat before the vanity and running the bristles through her sleep-mussed hair until she's finally smoothed it out enough to pull it back and tie her favorite yellow ribbon around the ponytail. Satisfied, she sheds her bedclothes and opens her armoire, pushing the clothes inside about until she's finally able to cherry pick the garments that catch her eye. Everything hanging from the armoire's rack, or placed neatly folded on its shelves, is of exceptional quality, and tailored just for her. Once she's dressed herself, donning a simple white blouse tucked by the waist into a black skirt that reaches her knees. As she grabs and tugs on her favorite boots, expensive ones made of brown leather with decorative buckles along the sides; she hears a knock on her heavy bedroom door, accompanied by a voice from the other side. "Lady Evelyn, are you awake?"

"Yes, come in!" Evelyn replies, stamping her foot a few times to be certain she's gotten the boot all the way on. The door swings open, slowly, assisted by the mechanism built into it and accompanied by the sound of the gears turning while the heavy and ornately decorated metal slab. The figure that enters is one that's very familiar to Evelyn. A middle-aged woman in a dark, ankle-length dress, silvery gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, half-circle spectacles resting near the bottom of her nose. Her heels clack loudly on the floor as she approaches the younger woman. Joyce. Just who she wanted to see. Evelyn beams at the older woman, rising from her stool and clasping her hands behind her back. "Have you talked to Father yet?"

"Some hours ago." Evelyn feels hope rise inside her, like air being blown into a balloon. "And? What did he say about the festival? Can I go?" The elder woman is only silent for a few moments, but that's all it takes for Evelyn's expression to dim. "I'm terribly sorry, Lady Evelyn. Were it up to me-"

"No, it's fine. It isn't your fault." Frowning, Evelyn brushes her hands over her skirt in an effort to smooth it out, if only to look as if the answer bothered her less. "Do I have any lessons, then?"

"None today. However, your father is very anxious to speak to you."

"Is he?" After a moment of pondering, Evelyn looks back up, making eye contact once again. "Thank you, Joyce. I'll go see him now." Joyce nods, sparing the young woman an almost mournful look. She knew better than anyone how badly she'd been wanting to see the festival. "Very good, Lady Evelyn." But there was nothing she could do about that. She was only a caretaker, not the master of the house, and so, with the conversation concluded, Joyce turns and leaves, and after blowing out an indignant huff, so does Evelyn. The walk to her father's study isn't a long one, even if it had seemed so when she was a child who'd just had a nightmare and was terrified to walk past the paintings that lined the walls. She stops outside the door, made of rich mahogany wood, and knocks softly. "It's me, father."

After a moment, the gruff sound of her father's voice, muffled by the door, reaches her ears. "Come in." She does so, turning the brass knob and stepping inside the study. The whole room was done in rich colors, oak wood walls, dark red carpet, a decorative fireplace with golden adornments, rifles mounted above it, and various animal heads stuffed and mounted on plaques around the room. Her father, Cornelius, sits as he often would at his writing desk, dragging his pen over the parchment laid out before him. Evelyn holds her hands in front of her, waiting for him to speak first. That was proper etiquette, after all, and her father clung to having her observe that like a drowning man holding onto driftwood. She doesn't have to wait long for her father to set his elegant fountain pen down and look up at her. He was a rough-looking man, white hair neatly combed back, a long beard, and a scar on his cheek that he'd attained some years ago, during a war he preferred not to talk about. "Joyce has brought to my attention that you wish to attend the festival tonight."

Evelyn nods, softly. Timidly. Her father was an intimidating man. "Yes, it's just that-" She's silenced when he holds up a hand. "You understand why I can't let you do that, Evelyn. It's for your own good." She presses her teeth together when she hears that. That was what he always said, every refusal was always 'for her own good'. Her father rises from his writing chair, checking the golden watch he kept chained to his vest.

"You'll understand one day." She can take it no longer. Her hands, neatly folded at her front, become fists that ball tighter with each passing moment, until she can feel her fingernails digging into her palms. "Understand what?" She yells, much louder than she'd actually intended to, but she fails to notice as she continues. "You can't keep me locked up at home forever, father! It's unfair! I want to see things! I want to do things! I want, no, I need-" She's cut off by his retort. "You "need" to remember who you're talking to, Evelyn!" Her father's voice was a commanding thing, even when he spoke at normal volume. To hear it being thrown at her in a shout was always frightening, even now, and she falters in her stance.

"I am your father, and you are my child. I can do whatever I like so long as you live under this roof, and you will remain here until I know you can handle being on your own. You do not make the rules, do you understand me?" The words ripped from her, Evelyn nods silently. Cornelius stomps closer, unsatisfied. "I said; do you understand me." It doesn't sound as much like a question the second time. "Yes, father. I understand." With a narrowing of his eyes, he lifts his daughter's chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "You know I'm only doing this to keep you safe. Your mother-"

"I know. I'm sorry, father." She averts her eyes all the same, and her father's rough hand releases her. "I know you are, child." He returns to his desk, boots thumping on the carpeted floor. "You're to be confined to your room for the evening. I'll have your meals sent up to you." He sits back down at the desk, and when he doesn't say anything else, Evelyn takes her leave, waiting until she's closed the door to acknowledge the stinging tears she feels welling up in her eyes. She walks back to her room just a little quicker, thankful that the door is still open as she rushes in and practically throws herself face-first onto her bed, gritting her teeth and choking out her sobs into the soft abyss of the pillow. She was twenty now. An adult, damnit. She should be allowed to make her own decisions by now, not be kept prisoner in her own home. It wasn't fair. Even the paupers in the lower districts would get to see the festival, but her? She'd have to watch it from the window. Again. Like always. Or...maybe not. Peeking up from the pillow, her large, scarlet red curtains catch her eye. Her window wasn't too high above one of the opulent manor's balconies, and she knew the doors on it were never kept locked. It...wouldn't be that hard to simply sneak out, she supposed, if she wore a cloak. Or if she were careful enough. She'd read dozens of stories with the same idea. Her mind made up, Evelyn nods to herself, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and setting her jaw defiantly. "I am going to that festival."


End file.
